Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume L, Issue 26, 5 July 1923, Page 28

Selected Poetry

A Dull Day From cock-a-doodle-doo To whirry owl’s call I should have been working, , But never worked at all. From the waking of the thrush To the waking of the bat My day was as dull As the floor is flat. For my dear had gone out Where giddy winds blow, In a queer little car. And I wanted to go. Where the wide roads run On their straight-away quest From red-in-the-east To red-in-the-west. The long day passed ■ As all days go over From dew on the grass To the folding of clover. But next time, Beloved, I’ll travel with you From whirry owl’s call To cock-a-doodle-doo. —Marguerite Wilkinson, in Current Opinion. *? The Secret Ah, if the secret were in simple ways, The easy childlike ways of home, Why did its beauty in the far-off days Not capture me before I touched the foam? Before my boat, unfastened to the wind, Had learned the hunger of the sea, Leaving young fields and lanes behind To strive eternally? For though the sand is fine, it sets adrift The loves of years, and rising dreams Flood, and leave bare the heartwho can sift At last these bitter streams? Now what I see before me is not mineshadows gone astray Through lanes of spring from me far, far apart! I see one sweep the floorshe bends the knee to pray, Those eyes might drown my own, my chosen part. For envyseeing her bow her head, And hungry tears of loss would almost start To watch her count the stitches, make the bread, Put every cup and .saucer in its place— Ah, but the sea’s gay song were in my heart Had I not seen your face. M. Lyster, in the Irish World. Our Fight I have often wished I had left my bones Over there in France ’neath the shell-torn soil, When ideals were high, and the crumbling thrones Seemed a recompense for our bloody toil, I have often pondered since my return To a.land so filled with a greed for gain What befell the virtues we so idly spurn? Was our fight for right really fought in vain? Yet what a stand for a man to take When he knows this land has its wrongs to right; Tho’ he fought in war for his country’s sake, Should he shun in peace the fight he could fight? When the last salute has. been fired some day, And the shades are. drawn, and the flag’s half mast, It would be better far to pass away With the thought, “I fought right up to the last.” —Maurice 0. Waugh, in the Kansas Legionnaire. ,

A Puritan Lady Wild Carthage held her, Rome, Sidon. She shook to tears Tall, golden Helen, wearying " Behind the Trojan spears. Old Antwerp knew her well; She wore her sober gown In some tall house in Oxford grass, Or lane in Salem town. Humble and high in one, Cool,’ certain, different, She lasts; scarce saint, yet half a child, As hard, as innocent. What grave, long afternoons, What caged airs round her blown, Stripped her of humor, left her bare. As cloud, or wayside stone? s - Made her as clear a thing, In this slack world as plain •As a white flower on a grave, Or sleet sharp at a pane? Lizette Woodworth Reese, in The Lyric. The Sea Wolf The fishermen say, when your catch is done And you’re sculling in with the tide, , You must take great care that the Sea Wolf’s share Is tossed to him overside. .Iii ' They say that the Sea Wolf rides, by day, Unseen on the crested waves, And the sea mists rise from his cold green eyes When he comes from his salt sea. caves. The fishermen say, when it storms at night And the great seas bellow and roar, That the Sea Wolf rides on the plunging tides, And you hear his howl at the door. And you must throw open your door at once, And fling your catch to the waves, Till he drags his share to his cold sea lair, Straight down to his salt sea caves. Then the storm will pass, and the still stars shine, . In peaceso the fishermen say — But the Sea Wolf waits by the cold Sea Gates For the dawn of another day. —Violet McDougal, in the New York Times. SJ! The Belfry of Mons At Mons there is a belfry tall That chimes from noon to noon; At every quarter of the hour It scatters forth a lovely shower Of little notes that from the tower All flutter down in tune. At Mons from out the Market Place The streets rise up the hill Where ring the chimes that year by year Cry out, “Look upward, lads, and cheer! / For God’s own Kingdom now and here, / And peace and right good-will.” .• - "J At Mons there lie a- mort o’ lads - A-row and underground, •- , That shall not hear the belfry ring ■ Nor human voice nor anything, • Until at the last summoning . They ; hear the trumpet sound.. ' '•—Wilfrid Thorley, in the London Saturday Review.